PROLOGUE: I wrote this post quite some time ago and it has been rattling around my brain and my desktop for many weeks. The women reproduced here are women that, in my humble opinion and from my age standpoint, represent women in the media AND IN REAL LIFE that we can idolize with ease. I sense an appealing reality in them, but that’s just me.

POST HOLIDAY REVELATION

This female body image stuff goes waaaaay back into the art world. But isn't she beautiful? For real. Beautiful.

The Golden Globe Awards were/was on tonight and it triggered a shit storm of thoughts in my head that triggered something else that released another shit storm of connections in my head about women and myself. Here’s what came up:

In these post-holiday months I have been lamenting the ingestion of copious amounts of cheese, which is a shame, because I LOVE cheese and enjoyed every holiday moment of eating it (thanks to an obliging sister). I would like to be able to celebrate the beauteous-ness that is cheese rather than feeling bad about it now.

Jessica, I'm sorry you felt that you had to alter yourself for anyone. Baryshnikov, Sam Shepard, Hollywood, anyone. You are beautiful.

The thing is, the perfect storm of weight gain has possessed me in the last 1.5 years. I have always been in shape and have not worried about weight and at 46, that is something different from most women I know. That said, in my previous years I moved my ass every single day in a myriad of ways – running, soccer, gymnastics, dance, more running, hiking, sporadic tennis, and yet more running. All that motion kept me lean along with good eating habits my mother instilled in me from the get-go.

Wonderful at every age and an actress to emulate.

Flash forward to now.; the frequent sedentariness of my job, the often crippling energy depletion due to hormonal changes, the active metabolism being replaced with lead in my veins that is then weighed down by gravity making exercise seem like running through water, a relationship break-up that made me deeply sad and hunker down with bread and cheese for comfort. It all added up to the perfect storm of putting 15 pounds on a body that has never had to work at losing weight. But I want to now. It’s all I think about. Mainly because none of my clothes fit. I realize this sounds shallow and trite, but maybe I just need to write about it and then I can move on to dealing with some different issues.

She always strikes me as the no bullshit and no facades type.

It is quite physically uncomfortable to go to work in my current work clothes. Purchasing a new work wardrobe is out of the question as I have spent quite some time collecting beautiful vintage dresses and other clothes that cannot and should not be replaced, not to mention the expense of a whole new set of clothes. Hence, my obsession to lose weight.

A woman to relate to.

Running along side this clothing-fitting obsession is my daily dipping into popular culture via people magazine.com or Perez Hilton.com. These sites drop me into the world of women who make up a tiny percentage of the real world and yet are more visible that any others. I have found myself thinking, If Angelina Jolie’s arms are that thin on film, how effing thin must she be in real life? I think my arms are bigger than her thighs! (I read in a trashy magazine at the doctor’s office that she is 5′ 8″ and weighs 97 lbs. Totally incomprehensible.) Yeah, stupid, shallow, WTF thoughts like that are taking up space in my brain. Not good.

While raising my daughter (and when I was raised as a daughter) fashion magazines were not an option. Access to that media was both not a desire nor sought after. Our every day worlds offered enough information about who we were and are supposed to be as women. Our feminine standards were set by grandmothers, great aunts, mothers, and older sisters. “Celebrity” women were not on our radar. When thinking of my grandmothers, and great aunts I remember them as SO beautiful! Really. Physically beautiful as well as deeply kind, loving.

My Great Aunt Helen: never altered, always honest.

Irony of ironies, my daughter has sashayed into the modeling world, beautiful and intelligent. She purposefully walked onto that runway of body distortion only after being raised in a Tee-Pee on a mountain, living with Native Americans on a reservation, learning how to make a fire without any matches, dancing ballet, tumbling in gymnastics, breaking a finger in soccer, excelling at Capoeira, learning Portuguese, obtaining a bachelor’s degree in Global Studies, certified in and assisting with permaculture certification courses in Kenya, and being the kindest person I know.

My darling daughter.

Latest news from her world is that after London Fashion week (where at 5’ 10” and a size four she had the largest dress size and at age 23 was the oldest girl) she is done with runway modeling. She was fortunate and navigated that lion’s den of neurosis unscathed. I pity the fourteen year old GIRLS in Marc Jacob’s show he used to model WOMEN’S clothes. Hopefully, their parents wake up and snatch them back to reality, because even though they may say it, modeling for Marc Jacob’s can not be their dream at age fourteen. The disconnect in that whole world is mind boggling.

Magic Meryl helped a struggling teenage me realize that a more prominent nose could be a beautiful thing.

Living in Southern California, I am privy by proximity, to Hollywood culture. It has invaded my hometown and I have let it invade my daily visible input. Shame on me. In the midst of my perfect storm of negativity thought such as “I am fat and no man will ever love me unless I lose this 15 pounds” which, while I know it is bullshit, still haunts my waking hours. But only when I compare myself to a non-realistic idol.

Laura Dern has always looked to me like she could be another one of my sisters.

Recently, I had a night out with my niece: my 26 year old, perfect, beautiful niece, who ironically works in a plastic surgeons office as she waits for med-school acceptance. In the midst of general women’s conversation she voiced her desire to maybe get “… a little lip injection. Just a little.”

I was horrified. This beautiful, radiant girl wanted to alter her face, alter her genuine divinity because …. Why? I could only surmise for some of the same reasons I wanted to alter myself – continual exposure to women and images altering themselves to meet an unnamed ideal. I admonished her and made her swear never to do it, and she agreed.

Me and my most perfect niece.

I made a pact with my friends years ago that I would not alter myself, but that was before my perfect storm of mid-life physical imperfections. I fantasize about a non-invasive machine that could suck out all the cold, unwanted fat and dream of my 20 or even 40 year-old body.

Since I am not married, I have no husband saying “I love you no matter what” and kid myself into thinking that if I did, I would be more accepting of myself right now. And I might, but regardless… I try to remember to talk to myself as I would a beautiful best friend, gorgeous niece, or luminous daughter:

“You are beautiful as you are. You are healthy. You are aware and taking care of yourself. You are perfect. Just as you are.”

JUST

AS

YOU

ARE.

Rock on, pretty ladies.

Miss MoL

PS: And now, on to discussing more the important problems of the world.

The other night found me, once again, sitting in front of my television taking pictures of the movie that was showing. Once again, the movie starred Katharine Hepburn. This time she is eleven years older and alone on vacation in Venice, Italy.

Every time I sat back on the couch to relax and watch the movie, another scene would come up in such splendid technicolor I had to rush over to the TV and take yet another picture (there were about 40 on my phone the next day, but the lighting was not good, so I have only shared the good-ish ones).

KH and the tacky Americanos arrive in Venice.

I’ve never been to Venice (not yet anyway), but I have always had a grotesquely distorted image of it in my mind as the epitome of romantic places in the world.

When I was sixteen, I wrote a story for a creative writing project (actually typed on onion skin paper) about a romantic rendezvous on a bridge in Venice . There were two pages required for this assignment. I got a little carried away and ended up typing twenty pages so engrossed was I in creating romance in a world suffused with watery reflections that bounced off the walls of crumbling palazzos.

Venice, 1955, in full technicolor.

Anyway, I related to Hepburn’s character, Miss Hudson, in this movie. I also travel alone, have spent much time alone as of late and am getting a little tired of it, to be honest. I’ll be going to England in April to be with family and friends and I really expect to see out of the corner of my eye, a distinguished gentleman pleasantly watching me as I film the world around me, as I so often do now. My camera and clothes are a bit different, unfortunately, but this particular scenario still exists in the world, which may be one reason why movies like this retain their allure. It’s timeless.

Shades of my life.

The movie is SUMMERTIME from 1955 starring the great Kate and Rossano Brazzi. If you haven’t seen it in a while (or ever!), I highly suggest it. Romance is alive and well in this Venice.

It’s almost 1am on a school night and I am wide awake. It’s been an evening of post-war Downton Abbey drama and real world musical accolades and memoriams.

First of all, Whitney Houston. I just erased the 100 words I wrote about her. Enough has been said. It is a waste, pure and simple – Whitney’s life, not my words.

Oh, yeah.

Secondly, I LOVVVVE Downton Abbey. However, after tonight I really hope that Julian Fellowe’s doesn’t turn it all into General Hospital with pretty dresses. It’s starting to feel a bit like a soap opera. Ugh. But, good things have happened. Matthew is “upright” and able to sire the family. Oh, thank God.

And I could go on with all of that, but I what I really want to write about is Adele. She won the shit out of the American Grammy’s. Oh, thank God. I was disillusioned with Rihanna (what was that whole thing with Cold Play, anyway?) and Carrie Underwood and any other country stars with SOOO much make-up on that the country was/has been lost on me. I applaud Lady Gaga, but her music and persona is such a non-reality to me. It’s difficult to relate. On a side note: Kelly Clarkson? Wow. Girl can sing like a powerhouse.

The most disturbing part for me is the way that “entertainment” and “talent” for these young girls is depicted and scripted for them as grinding against man and pole and it just make me cringe. This is what they have to give? Or rather, this is what the industry thinks they should give? These girls have talent. And it is bastardized into a slutty show of sexuality and submission or, even more sad, domination. Ugh.

And then there’s Adele. She writes her own songs. She doesn’t dance (I’ve seen her in concert, it’s just her and a band – no back up dancers, just a charming personality, snappy patter and an epic TALENT). And why? Because she doesn’t need the back up. She backs herself up with lyrics that she writes, a lot of soul, and honest personality. And some profanity, which just adds to the charm. She is the same age as my daughter, who is also beautiful, talented and her own undeniable person. She doesn’t need any back-up dancers. Oh, thank God.

Somehow in this crazy-ass Kardashian, reality television, celebrity thin-ness obsessed world that can invade my world, knowing that someone like Adele was so honored tonight makes me happy and have a little more faith in … something. I don’t even know what, exactly. But something. Real people, humble people, talented people, people who don’t give a fuck about what anyone else thinks? Yeah. All of that.

With a perpetual lack of creativity and imagination flowing through my brain, rather than once again not write anyhing, I turned to my iPhone and the over one thousand photos that languish there – random, uncategorized and detailing my personal snapshot history from December 29th, 2007 (which is when i got the phone) until day before yesterday.

My very first iphone photo. And actually one of my favorites. Sadly, not my house or my toys.

Four years later to the day, I took this photo:

Zombie Kitty on the porch chair. Sadly, not my kitty.

So what happened in between the graveyard of discarded toys and the neighbors zombie cat on my porch (heck, that would make a good story title)?

Well, the photos tell a story of golf games I played (four total), four billion beach walks, friends, family, deceased pets (not my pets), vertigo-inducing shots of interesting ceilings, east coast gardens, west coast architecture, people I love, people who are no longer in my life, sunsets, moonrises, sisters, food, art and galleries, holiday events, trains, cars, planes, etc, etc.

Which brings me to the pictures I took day before yesterday; I sat on my living room floor and took pictures of my television, specifically THE PHILADELPHIA STORY that was a welcoming light of warmth in a blizzard of channel surfing. Even after 200 viewings, the perfection of dialog and the sublime Hollywood beauty of the actors arrests me and I watch it all again.

Dex and the Goddess.

They are so beautiful, so funny, so classy and eloquent. And awfully blurry in these photos.

This is one of my favorite photos from this random shoot.

The whole movie makes me ask, “Why don’t we dress like this anymore? Why are we all so lazy with our speech and friendly dialog? Where the heck is C.K. Dexter Haven when you want him?”

My, she was Yar.

Katharine Hepburn exudes a strength of character both real and scripted that indeed puts her on a pedestal for all the rest of us to worship and admire. Impossibly lithe, yet wiry and strong – not wasting away anorexic, chiseled cheekbones of marble, her tone and manner, all of it perfection.

Dex and Macauley

And I suppose, part of the appeal for me is the heady idea of being the woman betwixt two men such as these. I don’t count her fianceè, George. And neither did Tracy, in the end.

Tracy and Mike. "The unholy surprise of it" is that she is flesh and blood.

I mean really, how to choose? There was a time that I would have gravitated toward the sensitive writer (Mike); he’s young and somewhat innocent about life and love, he reads and writes, emanates a sweetness. Good stuff. And he took home the Oscar for this role in 1941.

Oh, C.K. Dexter Haaaa-vennn...

But now, I do believe, my taste has shifted toward Dex. He’s kicked his drinking habit, he’s aware of his past mistakes and what is going on around him, he is an active and intelligent player with heart in this love game. Worldly and decidedly not innocent. Funny how taste can change.

In the end it all works out perfectly, of course, because this is a Hollywood fairytale. Tracy’s eyes are finally open to what’s in front of her and the best man wins the Goddess, if not the Oscar.

Anyway, all this to say I have now become a person who takes pictures of her television. It may be time for an intervention.